


Being of Hypothetical Existence

by Northisnotup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fights, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Magical Realism, Married Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup
Summary: Probably, Sid never meant for his spouse to become the Phantom of Consol Energy Center, but if not for Mario's confirmation the team would still be running a bet as to whether or not the man actually exists.





	Being of Hypothetical Existence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coricomile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/gifts).



"In our garden? Are you serious right now? … Because we talked about this. What are you going to do for papers?" Sid pauses in front of his cubby, clenching and unclenching his fist around the straps of his bag. "You know a guy. Sure, that solves everything." Sid doesn't snap or snarl or raise his voice, but the flat, insistent tone makes Kris wince. 

Kris glances to his side, forgetting for a second there's no one left to make a commiserating face with him, and his gut clenches, just for a second, before he swallows it down and opts instead to take a picture of Sid's flat, thunderous expression for the Quebecois group chat. 

Sid flips him off, his scowl promising words when he's off the phone, and Kris shrugs, not in the least bit sorry. 

His phone chimes immediately. 

_(Marc, Read 9:03 am) Trouble in paradise?_

Kris snorts. _What else is new? Sid’s married to a vampire  
Only they don't suck blood, they just suck_

Probably, Sid never meant for his spouse to become the Phantom of Consol Energy Center, but if not for Mario's confirmation the team would still be running a bet as to whether or not the man actually exists. It's not like they got invited to the wedding, after all. It's not like Sid wears a ring. He came back after their first cup summer, smiling all the time, ‘seeing someone, just casually,’ and two years later, he slipped ‘my husband’ casually into conversation and that was that. 

After seven years, Kris knows Sid’s husband is not Canadian, speaks English as a second language, travels more then they do for some mysterious job, and that Mario exclusively calls him Sid’s 'better half,' which never fails to send Sid into snorting, choking laughter. 

Considering Sid is an honorary uncle to Alexander and was a groomsman at Kris’s own wedding, there is not a lot of reciprocal information happening.

Sid sighs. "Listen, I have to go and so do you. Can we just table this?"

Kris leaves his eyes locked firmly on the dots of Duper typing, even when Sid finally snaps, "Jesus Christ, of course I am going to wish you safe travels. I still love you even when I don't like you. No. Right now I don't … Because you're acting completely ignorant of how this will look!" 

_(Pascal, Read 9:05 am) Are they still fucking fighting? It's been like two weeks_

Someone clears their throat, and Kris's eyes jump guiltily from his phone. 

Not Sully, thank god, but Horny, who jerks his chin towards the clock. Kris sighs, tosses his phone down, and focuses on getting ready rather than gossiping about Sid's fucking shitty marital problems. 

"I have to go. I love you. Safe travels." 

Ouch. 

“El Chupacabra not cooking dinner tonight?” Kris chirps immediately, because the best defense is offense, and Sid always finds the “your husband is a fucking cryptid” jokes funny. (To be fair, Talbo had started it, stating flatly that if Sid was a Creature there was no way his boyfriend was human. He had then started referring to the guy exclusively as Bigfoot, which set two precedents: 1. Sid’s marriage as a topic for ridicule, not because he’s married to a guy, but because he’s married at all, and 2. now Kris cannot ever ask what Sid’s husband’s name is, because he has been told, but after eight years of calling the guy Chupacabra, Kris cannot, in good conscience, admit it’s solely because he just doesn’t know.)

Sure enough, Sid winces, breathing heavily through his nose to fight laughter. “I was getting real fucking tired of goat, I gotta tell ya.” 

"Alexander misses you, mon chum." Kris goes for the jugular immediately, not bothering to mince words or make Sid less suspicious with chit-chat. "Come over for lunch, yeah?" 

“And I guess Flower’s gonna facetime me after?” Sid huffs, shaking his head ruefully.

Kris shrugs. “Probably.” he says, as if he won't be sending the all clear as soon as Sid leaves his driveway.

“It’s just a rough patch, we’re fine.”

Kris hums.

“Our schedules just aren’t syncing up, you know? One of us is always away and it’s tough to deal with, is all.” Sid pulls a face, looking for commiseration from a fellow Old Married. “If we’re gonna talk about renovating the house, or in-laws coming to visit or if Taylor’s old enough to be living on her own, or if I want kids right now, we should be in the same room, at least. Not half a continent away. You don’t make decisions like that over the phone.” Sid tugs his laces in short, sharp movements that bleed all the aggression he kept in on the phone. 

“That’s not nothing, Sid.” 

“Yeah, well.” Sid tugs at Kris’ jersey, fixing his sweater and tapping his ass to get him moving. “It’s not a whole lot of something either. Come on.”

Kris watches his friend walk away with something like anger tight in his chest. He hadn't known Sid was thinking of kids yet. Let alone thinking seriously enough to be fighting about it. Sure, they’ve been together more than a few years now and everyone knows how baby-crazy Sid is, but to be honest Kris’s gotten the impression Sid’s husband maybe doesn’t want kids as much as Sid does, if at all.

When Sid hosts team-night, he’s the only one home. 

Sid never brought a plus one to family skate or team dinners, using his mysterious job as an excuse for the guy’s absence. And though Sid had tried his very best to hide it, he’d been so disappointed when ‘work emergencies’ left him single at their cup parties. 

Through his seven years of marriage, Sid has been faithful and happy enough that this is the first time Sid has asked-without-asking for support. Damn if Kris is going to leave him alone.

\---

Face-time’s jaunty tune rings through five times before Sid deigns to answer Marc’s fucking calls. (Sure, he was probably driving home but that is no excuse. He’s technically a millennial, learn to text and drive, asshole.* Or have the over-priced, over-engineered monster that has the audacity to call itself a car read them out loud!)

Marc waves Scarlett’s chubby fist, “Say ‘hello, Oncle Sid!’” 

A soft, sad look steals its way over Sid’s face, the way it always does these days when he holds a baby that isn’t his, before he responds happily to Scarlett’s baby babble. “Bonjour, ma petite fleur,” he coos in his shitty, shitty French. Scarlett waves her hand, tapping at the phone as if she could reach through to smack at her favourite uncle’s face and babbling for another few minutes before she gets bored and squirms down, “Bye-bye!” toddles away to do toddler stuff. She’s such a smart, wonderful girl, his daughter. 

"So," Sid stands the phone up and Marc-Andre gets a very good view of his kitchen. This, this right here is why being three hours away blows ass. If he were able to just walk over to Sid's house and look him in they eye, the whole messy story would come out in a minute, but Sid likes to stay busy while on the phone, so he cleans and organizes and takes Marc on a lovely tour of his home to avoid the subject every damn time. "What story did Tanger feed you then?"

Marc-Andre forces a grin, "A little birdie told me you needed a shoulder to cry on, a bosom brother, so to speak."

Sid mouths the word 'bosom' to himself, throwing the phone a worried look as he grabs heavy rubber gloves and an opaque bottle to start in on the mountain of dishes in the sink, some of which seem to be crusted in blurred blue, probably thanks to the iphone's shitty light gradient. Or Sid’s husband is just an awful fucking cook, but, Marc’s fucked up a lot of meals and nothing’s ever turned blue, so. "I don't even know why you're all freaking out about this, we're fighting, it's no big deal."

"You've been riding in with Mario again." 

"Tanger's a fucking gossip." Sid sighs, scrubbing hard at the blue-crusted pan with suds that shine yellow-orange. Flower needs to fix his fucking phone before Estelle's next recital. "It's none of his business, you know. If I need help-"

"You'll hang on a fucking cross til someone calls you on it, don't lie." Marc rolls his eyes, Sid's jittery cleaning spree is making him feel lazy, so he gets up to follow the trail of destruction Scarlett has no doubt left behind her. "Besides, how often have I slept on your couch when fighting with Vero, eh?"

"Never."

"Exactly, because I bitch to my friends until I’m done being a fuck-head and am ready to talk it out with my wife." The true secret of marriage is sometimes needing to whine about your problems until you're ready to be an adult about it, and Marc figured that out a very long time ago.

“He wanted to adopt from, uh, Russia, but I didn’t want to have to translate what my kid is saying, so then he said we should get a surrogate, so the baby would be ours and I wouldn’t have to worry about it and it pissed me off. I told him it was a shitty thing to say and we had a dumb fucking fight about it, but he’s been out of the country or I’ve been out of town and every time we’re on the phone he just keeps pushing for what he wants instead of listening to what I’m saying.” Any of the lighthearted humor Sid started this conversation with is gone by the time he pauses for breath and even through the shitty connection Marc can see the tension in his shoulders. 

“I knew there would be a sort of culture shock when we got married, I knew there would be things he said or did that I would have to try to understand but it’s been ten years since we got together, Marc, and he still acts like I’m the one being unreasonable when I can’t eat something he’s made or understand his work, or ask him not to….” 

Sid cuts himself off and shakes his head when Marc hums to indicate he’s still listening. 

“Sid?” 

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, it’s the Yeti. 

Marc freezes, unable to look away from the mystery man standing shaded in the doorway, the answer to a million questions the team has had for almost ten whole years. A small, mean part of him notes that Duper wasn’t far off when he called him alien. Not that there aren’t hockey players who look a little inhuman after being hit in the face most of their lives, but what’s this guy’s excuse? He’s tall, bundled up in a heavy coat that still has snow on the shoulders.

“Geno, what the fuck?” 

Marc makes a mental note to share the Yeti’s actual name in the group chat, but is immediately distracted by the rumble of a deep, thickly accented voice. 

“Sid, I...You home?” 

“You left for…you left this morning, I didn’t think you’d be back yet.” 

Marc bites back a hiss. There is a lot to unpack in that statement. 

The Yeti, uh, Geno ducks his head, broad shoulders coming up around his large ears. “I, uh, I’m not think you’re coming home tonight, so I know you hate when I’m leave dishes, you know? Wanted to uh, finish before you’re home.” He reaches out a hand and Sid flinches. 

“Don’t!” 

Geno’s hand falls back to his side but he scowls deeply. Sid cuts off whatever he was about to say. “Sorry, Flower. I gotta-” The heavy kitchen gloves come off. 

“Sid, mon chum, maybe you call me back, eh?” Marc gets more than a little bit of mean satisfaction from watching Geno’s head whip towards his voice. 

“Yeah, for sure. Thanks for the call, eh?” 

There’s abject tension in the lines of Sid’s face as he hangs up the call, and Marc sighs quietly. Opens the group chat. 

_The Yeti’s name is Geno, and hes ugly as shit. Kris u owe me $$$_

\---  
“I cannot believe you almost did that.” Before getting on the phone to Flower, Sid was almost tranquil, he had meant it when he told Kris that it wasn’t really anything, because before getting on the phone and rehashing it, Sid had been missing his husband more than he wanted to be right. 

A week ago they went to bed without talking, facing their separate sides of the bed with careful, curated inches between the curves of their backs. They haven’t slept in the same bed since. 

“I didn’t know.” Geno says, his quiet, beseeching tone gone with the wind and immediately on the offensive. 

_Right, you had no idea I was on the phone because I talk to myself all the time!_ Sid doesn’t say, tucking his phone in his pocket. He cycles through a few things he carefully doesn’t say, grinding his teeth until the ache from where they wired his jaw back together is too painful to continue. “I cannot believe you just almost outed us, after all the shit you gave me about telling Mario, I cannot believe.” He turns to the dishes drying on the rack and begins to put the ones with fewer drips away, just for something to do.

"Is not the same thing, Sid!" Sid feels air brush past, tickling his right and left ear. He hasn't ever gotten used to the odd nearly haunting feeling magic being cast leaves in the air. "You know it's not the same thing!"

Hands full, Sid tries to rub his itching ear on his shoulder. "I've asked you a million times not to cast on me without asking, Geno. You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"You don't know Russian, Sid. Not Russian, not Finnish, not Sylvan, Not Drydic, you know no languages I know, so what, you want to watch me struggle to find the right words while we fight, huh?" A heavy, wet sound echoes through the kitchen and Sid makes a face, reaching for the heavy lab safety gloves he has to wear when touching anything Geno's enchanted with Slavic based magic. He won't put the coat away, he'll just kick it to the side wherever he shrugs out of it and then tear the house apart looking for it the next time he needs it. (Usually whining at Sid for not telling him to put it away when he got home, never mind he calls Sid a nag when he does.)

"No, that is not what I want! I want you to ask me before you cast, that's it. I don't think that's too much to ask." The translation spell in particular is awful, making Sid's ears itch, sometimes making him dizzy, but worst of all, it changes the way Geno sounds to him. It's still his voice, but smoother, more polished, like a Black Mirror evil twin-clone version of his husband.

"You want me to ask before I say or do anything with you, ever." Geno follows through the living room, hot on his heels, as if Sid is running away.

"That is not what we are talking about right now." Sid says, warningly.

"Isn't it? This is the same fight Sid! The same fight we started a week ago after dinner with your parents."

Sid throws the coat down in front of the door to Geno's workshop-cum-clinic, spinning around so they're face to face. "You said that we would have kids already, but I wasn't ready. To my mother!"

"I never said you weren't ready!"

"You said! You did, that we would have kids already, if it was up to you!"

"Well!" Geno spreads his hands wide, "What was I supposed to say when she asked? 'Sorry, Mrs. Crosby, doesn't want kids if they're magic?'"

Sid flinches, "That is not true!"

"'Sorry, Mrs. Crosby, Sid's still ashamed to have a warlock for a husband.'"

"How about: We had a plan to wait until Sid retires because I still can't be fucked to remember not everyone can cast magic!” The spell starts to vibrate the back of Sid’s ears, sending sharp pains through his temples. 

"There, you finally said it. Why can't you just be honest about why you're mad?" Geno steps closer, just an incapable as Sid of backing down from a fight. His natural, throaty Russian echoes loudly off the drywall and overlays the smooth-wrong translation and gives Sid the unique, nauseating experience of going cross-ear’d. 

"That is not what this is about."

"Yes it is, Sid. You want kids but you don't-

"No, Geno it's about your inability to think about anyone but yourself-

"want the risk of having kids, because it will be hard and Fates forbid you have to work at something other than hockey-

“or your world and you want a kid I will never be able to take in public without heavy glamour. You want a kid your husband may never be able to hold!" Sid sways, voice faltering from ‘just below a yell’ as the echo buzzing in his ears finally reaching the point of vertigo much earlier than it usually does. 

“Sid?” Geno doesn’t hesitate to drop the spell, twisting his fingers in the air like playing an imaginary cats cradle. “Sid, любимый?” 

“I’m fine.” Sid tries to wave him off, not wanting to be held or gentled, but Geno’s lush mouth pinches and he tugs and pushes Sid further into the living room and down onto the couch. The memory of Sid’s concussion and long recovery still dogging their footsteps, even years later. 

“Is not fine, Sid. Is hurting, why you not say it’s hurting?” Geno sits a bare arms length away as soon as Sid is settled.

“I asked,” Sid starts, and stops to take a breath and adjust his tone. Geno’s cheeks are red, his mobile, expressive face scowling at Sid’s pain. “I want you to ask me before you cast. The spell is usually okay, you know, but it, uh, echos a little when you- we yell,” he shrugs, licking his lips and scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “I don’t want to grow a baby in our garden. I don’t want to have a kid I can’t hold, or take out in public-” A Dryad baby that Geno can grow and teach and cast with is his dream, but Dryad’s come in as many species and genus as the plants they grow from, and there is no guarantee their Dryad baby will be non-poisonous, much less cultivated to suit city life. 

Geno blows out a loud breath, falling back to sprawl dramatically. “Have to take me out in public first, Sid!” 

Deep breaths, deep fucking breaths. “How, G? How can I do that without putting your business and clients in jeopardy?” 

They’ve had this exact argument at least once a year, every year they’ve been married. They’ve both argued for either side. 

“I love you, and I’m sorry.” Sid starts, looking at his hands, the odd places where the bones never healed quite right, the swollen knuckles and calluses. “I love you so much, I like you, I have never cheated on you, and I don’t want a divorce. If...if you want a baby sooner than we planned, we can do that. If you want me to retire, I will, I just need to know what do you want.” 

Geno stays still, staring at the ceiling, the slight hitch in his breathing the only real indication he’s heard and is processing what Sid’s said. “I’m sorry too. I don’t want you to retire, Sid, you love hockey. Best player in whole world is Sidney Crosby.” Sid ducks his head, smiling. Geno has always believed that of him, from the moment they met, through his concussion and broken jaw and slumps, Geno has always called him the best. “I want to be your husband. I love you, I love that I’m married to you. I want to be a family. If, uh, my people need to find a different Vědmák, it sucks, you know, but I understand. Us, we’re more important than my business, Sid.” 

“Okay.” Blinking away tears of relief, Sid shifts to press his side against Geno’s in a trembling olive branch. They’re not a perfect couple, they fight about dumb things: Geno leaving his clothes in the bathroom, and Sid’s inability to keep towels in the bathroom at all, who’s in-laws will visit for Christmas, and who didn’t replace the toilet paper roll. But they haven’t had a fight like this, where Sid stayed with Mario overnight and actively dreaded coming home in the morning, in a long time. “Wanna come to Mario’s dinner with me? Vegas is flying in and so Flower, Reaves and Nealer will be back in town, everyone wants to get together.” 

“That one already saw me, you know? Probably such gossip. No point of being secret now.” Geno pouts, throwing one lanky arm over Sid’s shoulders and tugging him closer and closer until he can lean his cheek against Sid’s hair and lay cloyingly sweet kisses on his forehead. “Maybe you take another season off? We try old fashioned way.” 

“Ugh. No.” Sid swats at his husband’s shoulders, “I am not carrying your weird egg-baby. You wanna do the old fashioned way, you can be pregnant with the weird egg baby.” 

Geno sighs, long and loud. “I can’t be pregnant, любимый, don’t have the hips for it, you know?” 

“Oh fuck you.” Sid laughs, but presses a kiss against Geno’s jaw anyway. “I don’t know why I missed you.” 

“Miss me so much, most missing me, Sid.” 

“Sure was, babe.” 

\---

Catherine breaks away from him with a wordless cry, embracing Vero tightly and pretending she isn’t crying in her friend’s arms. (Kris couldn’t blame her, having manfully wiped away a few tears of his own while hugging Flower a little tighter than necessary.) 

“No, you don’t matter, go away,” he says immediately after letting go. “You’ve already gotten to see him, I need to find Pascal.”

“It was on facetime, it doesn’t count!” Flower cries, turning to their wives for a ruling.

Catherine dabs lightly under her eyes with a tissue so as not to smear her mascara. “Saw who?” She pretends a need to blow her nose to hide a sniffe, and Kris is struck by the love he carries for her. 

“Oh, is this about Sid’s husband? I heard he was coming tonight, it will be nice to finally have a face for his many names,” Vero laughs lightly, also dabbing at her eyes. 

“You saw Sid’s husband?” Cath whirls on him and Kris throws his hands up. 

“Not yet, I haven’t. But Sid swore he would be here tonight.” 

She looks skeptical. Which, fair enough, Sid’s husband is the subject of such mystery, Maeva Dupuis wanted to write a story about it for her English class. (Sidney Crosby and the Secret Spouse. It had a good ring to it, could have made a mint, if Sid had not been Sid.) 

They’re wasting time. Sid would never bring his husband to the living room first, it’s too full, young teammates, wags, kids running around, that’s too much. The last thing Sid would want to do is overwhelm the man and make him have ‘work emergencies’ for the rest of their lives. But, he’s met Mario, and Mario likes him, which mean Nathalie must like him…

“The kitchen.” Kris gasps, snapping his fingers. 

Does he bump into someone’s new girlfriend in his haste? Maybe.

Does he (lightly) shove a small child out of his way? Yes, but he calls out “tag, you’re it!” to the delighted sheiks of the gathered kids, so it’s fine. 

Finally, just as he thought, there was Sid and Pascal- the traitor! -leaning against the island, sipping wine while Nathalie and Mario swing around each other, effortlessly in step, chopping and stirring and offering up tasting spoons to the large, Frankenstein-looking motherfucker in the corner. “You!” 

Fuck he’s tall. 

Whatever, Kris’s fought bigger. 

Pascal wraps one arm around Sid, holding him still while Kris advances on his helpless husband. (Maybe not such a traitor after all.) “You! Ah-ha! You’re the husband, eh?” 

El Chupacabra glaces quickly around the kitchen for help, but no one comes to his aid. Mario and Nathalie are pretending to stir the same pot, Pascal has Sid in hand, and Flower is guarding the door. There’s nowhere to run. 

Kris watches him realize this and is surprised when he squares his shoulders and thrusts his chin out defiantly. “Yes? What you want, huh?” 

This guy… this guy thinks Kris is actually going to fight him. Here. In his boss’ kitchen with his captain watching. That’s fucking hilarious.

He can see exactly what Marc-Andre meant now, about his face. He’s not model pretty, receding hairline, gangly disproportionate features and limbs, but he’s got an interesting face, and more, he’s got soul. 

That doesn’t mean he’s off the hook, though.

“I am Kristopher Letang, that over there is Marc-Andre Fleury and Pascal Dupuis. Sid is our best friend and you--” Kris grins, feral and mean, poking at Geno’s chest. “--are his husband, but we’ve never met, eh? Now you think you get to hide away? No, you are coming with us, mon ami. Tonight we drink!”

Geno’s hooded eyes fly wide, and he looks, again, for someone to save him. It’s no use. Kris has him by the shoulders and is steering him quickly out of the room. 

“So how’d you two crazy kids meet, eh?” Flower starts, holding the door to Mario’s private study open.

“Hey! Make sure I get him back in one piece, eh?” Sid calls after them, sounding like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“Ehh, we’ll see.” Pascal shrugs, his many, many years of practice giving him an unmatched poker face. 

Oh, this is going to be a good night.

**Author's Note:**

> * - This author does not support texting and driving. There is literally nothing you can text that is worth inattention to the road. 
> 
> Oh Coricomile, firstly, I would like to apologize because I know this wasn't what you thought you might get. Secondly, I would like to thank you. Because even though I had to rip this fic up and start from scratch with three weeks left, this has been one of the best things I have written in years. I had so much fun writing this, and I have a lot of background and trivia that didn't end up making the cut because the world I got to create with this was so interesting and exciting. 
> 
> Thank you to my team of beta's and cheerleaders who held my hand and pushed me forward. C-, G-, C-, and I- you guys rock.


End file.
